


A Silly Tale of a Yet Masked Merchant

by Pandesteger



Category: OFF (Game)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Headcanon, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, Tags Are Hard, Weird depictions, a hella lot a lot of credits, implied gore, not sure if I got the tags right, welp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 16:04:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12039399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandesteger/pseuds/Pandesteger
Summary: Once upon a long, long time, before the Batter arrived, there was the King of Toads.A World decaying.And a man standing amongst the rot.





	A Silly Tale of a Yet Masked Merchant

**Author's Note:**

> ...welp, my first fanfic and my contribution to the OFF fandom.  
>  I wish I could say more, but I'll try to get a hang of the AN.
> 
> Enjoy the ride.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A golden ticket appears

Heads are rolling. Rolling down the slopes - like boulders in a landslide - while marking their trail with a substance akin to thick, black ink. The ink, however, has almost covered the entire hill thus shaping that into a painter's canvas, which doesn't smell like paint, not at all. The smell, though, is sweet as sugar, literally. A fragnance one would associate with freshly baked cinnamon rolls glazed with layers of caramelised sugar, the taste of lollipops and pink, fluffy cotton candy. 

It's utterly sickening.

More heads continue to paint the hill until the inhumane screaming cease to be heard by ears alone. Atop of the tableau stands the painter staring at the nothingness staining the horizon, meanwhile the few heads that have managed to stay at the top pin their gaze at him, of course, only if the eyes still remain. Guilt is reflected upon the dull marbles, the image never seems to fade. 

"It's all right", the man mutters to himself, "It's gonna be fine. Fine". 

Despite the shaking hands, he manages to fetch himself a handkerchief, which is too grey to his own liking, from his backpocket and slowly swipe the dark liquid away from his machete. He will have to properly cleanse the blade at home; the substance keeps sticking to the blade.

"R-remember, th-they were not people anymore". He briefly loses focus for a moment, almost causing him quite a large papercut. "Not people, Zacharie, not anymore, not anymore, not anymore. You did nothing wrong, absolutely nothing."

He pockets the dirtied handkerchief, then approaches the nearest body. Remember to breathe: 

Inhale. Hold it. Exhale.

"Do it for her, Zacherie, do it for Sucre". A brief moment of hesitation.  
He sticks his hand into the breastpocket of the corpse. The liquid is still seeping through the fabric. 

 

100, 200, 300, 400, 500... 595 credits, a little less than last but it would suffice, nonetheless. With the current rate of income, it would take two months just to afford the outskirts of Zone 2, then he would have to save up for the materials, labourers, possibly the rent. Expect many years of even more countless grinding, more ink to wash away from his fingers, and yet, there's no way but forward; he had already spent months on this project, abandoning it is not an option anymore.  
As he lays the crumpled pieces of paper inside the box - their very own piggybank - Sucre's pointy fingernails prods his shoulder, reminding him to breach the surface of the present.

"Za-a-ch, why so solemn-looking? Anything bothering your pretty head?" She ruffles his hair, turning into a bigger mess than before. He, however, smiles so wide his teeth are showing up.

"Awww, thanks for worrying, sis, but it's not the really big of a deal," he puffs a laugh, immediately cringes at how it sounds. If he just had just the amount charisma as Sucre, maybe then the number of customers would increase from a couple to a dozen, "Just thinking about our soon to be amusement park". 

A smile as sweet as sugar creeps upon her lips, her eyes crinkling like gems. "Oh-oh! Zach, tell me more about the fun park, please please pretty please!". 

Of course, who can resist such a sweety as her. He makes himself comfortable, crosses his legs as Sucre moves beside him, eagerly waiting for him to begin. The whole situation reminds him of that time when they were much younger; an enourmous story book filled with pictures between his small hands and his baby sis swallowing each and every illustration. Neither were interested in the words, instead, they were only fascinated with the array of flying lizards and colourful landscapes, which were quite different from their usual books of logistics and business strategies. How ironic it is: the things he had come to despise the most are the ones he can't live without. 

"You see, beside the ballon popping stand, there will be a peddalo pond twice the sixe of our Zone filled with liquid plastic." He stretches his arms wide while spreading his fingers like a fan. "There are tiny islands everywhere from left to right, still not so many that they cover the whole pond, 'cause well, how else can you swim from one island to another if there isn't any plastic to swim upon? Nevermind, that's not all; the pond is decorated with thousands, and I say; thousands of colourful ballons floating everywhere, like....", a brief moment of hesitation.

"Factory smoke?" she peaks up.

"Uhhmm, yes! Exactly! Dispersing like clouds." 

"Then, can I pop them?"

He manages to stiffle a bobbly laugh, almost. "Of course, pop as many as your heart desires, 'cause our pond will never ever run out of ballons."  
...hopefully, his wallet will not run dry by the time the 590th has been completely obliterated, yet, despite the enormous expense of the pedallo pond, Zacharie can clearly imagine his, no, _their_ future amusement park. The minimalistic ballon popping stand suited for the complex mind, the vast and festive plastic lake, and last but definitely not the least: the rollercoaster, a contraption illustrated in one of his story books from the past. Several kilometres of red railroads swaying from side to side, sometimes bending into weird shapes, like 'O's and opposite 'V's. He can almost feel the rush and tickling excitement as the cart accelerates from 0 to 100 km/h, leaving the tracks burning and glowing. And at last, the sudden drop. 

He and Pablo has already begun drawing the base of the rollercoaster, though it's in need of mathematical adjustments and quite a consideration regarding the laws of physics. Of course, it's not just a walk in a park to reconstruct a construction from scratch when you only have a cartoonish picture from a children's book as a reference. Speaking of Pablo; he needs to remind himself to somehow thank him once again for a piece of the flat - if it weren't for him, they would still live on the streets, completely vulnerable. If he haven't met them at the roadside, nor if he haven't let them inside his apartment... 

"Dear Zacharie, my generosity has no need for any repayment of any sleazy kind. This is a friendly gesture of a generous heart - an act reserved for the most treasured of companions only"

Someone is poking him at his side, halting his train of thought. He notices Sucre's lips are moving.  
"-se, tell me more about the Ducky Pond." 

"The pond, yes," he takes a quick glanze at his watch; the Elsen's working hours are almost over. 30 minutes to open his shop, although it can wait a little longer - there are more important matters to attend to. "I've actually planned to make the boats swimming by themselves, you see..."

 

"-a box of silver flesh for the hard worker. Pleasure doing business with you," he sends the Elsen off with the best customer package he can manage, for now: a short quirk of lips and a wink. They are shuddering as they shamble away with hasty breaths, like always. Good customers they are, the Elsen, even if they are the only ones, still, who are to complain when the money is good and the income is steady, somewhat. The hesitant knocking in his gut is not completely noticeable, more likely a lingering itching sticking to his temple, nudging whilst reminding him of the fact that his moving store seems to attract fewer people, little by little each week. The decrease is not drastic, on the contrary, the impact is slow and crippling as poison: when the day has arriven, his best source of income is no more. Which means the only option is... he takes a brief look at his hand. Flakes of ink are stuck underneath his nails, reminding him of his deeds, sins, remember to breathe, past, self-doubt, _breathe_. The guilt in their eyes. 

A lump of ice sits uncomfortably in his stomach, the prickling cold spreading to his throat, like an army of spiders marching across their intertwined web. The crumpled bills in his back pocket are heavy, making it difficult to properly stand with wobbly feet. It's so hard to breath. So hard to see anything when ink is covering the platic beneath his feet, the buildings, the horizon, his sleves his hands his fingertips! And the disgusting, burnt smell still lingers on his clothes, skin, it's everywhere; pillars of thick liquid smoke seeps through the ground like dozens of defect fountains. The smoke flies towards the sky where it manages to suffocate the sun, the clouds and the sea of blue until the scenarie above him is filled with dark, soggy swirls resembling the familiar clouds. And they are crying. The ink is falling down their eyes, splattering as they hit the earth, until it's completely covered in liquid and the drops create countless ripples on the bottomless surface. First, his feet, then, slowly, the waters begin to rise above his knees, waist, neck... and they continue as they swallow him whole. The liquid, sticky as tar, pours in through: his nose, the small, empty spaces in his eye sockets, his ears and at last, his teeth as he makes the one fatal mistake to gasp for air, to cry even. 

It tastes like burnt sugar.

"...-cuse me, sir. E-e-excuse me, sir..."

And he's back to a reality with a clear sky and a lack of ink. An Elsen stands in front of the makeshift desk, trembling as they avoid any level of eye contact while eyeing the rack of monotonous ties. 

"O-oh, sorry," he clears his throat no longer filled with ink even though the sticky sensation still lingers, " 'nything you desire, gentlepal?"

They point timidly at the nearest tie, eyes still on the counter: "this... this one, p-please."

"A tie for you it'll be, and for me:" The piece of clothes is placed in front of its soon-to-be owner, "a small payment of 300 credits."  
As he accepts the smooth slips of paper, he notices the small droplets on the back of his hand and the darkened spots on the wood desk, which appear to multiply as he can feel a thin stream of water running down his one cheek. 

 

2400, 2600, 2700, 2800...2890 credits, not bad at all, Zacharie. Smirking to himself, he pockets the bundle of bills in his front pocket, yet as soon as he realises it can't contain all the cash, a single 100 credit escapes the pocket and is being carried by the wind towards freedom. 

"For the love of-!"

No other option but capturing the escapist, he sets off into a sprint. He passes by several skyscrapers with tinted windows and dense walls of concrete; all are completely identical - no different from a set of perfect teeth. As the terrain becomes uneven, the blocks of white are replaced with an ever-expanding wall plastered with advertisement he has seen so many times before. 

"Buy 3 gallons of plastic for the price of one! Zone 2 Mall", 

"Fresh quality meat available! Now with a greater amount of iron!", 

"Hungry for knowledge? Order a book at the Library!",

... he stops moving at the moment he sees the enourmous poster among the smaller ones. This one is craving for attention.  
**'ANY WISHES DESIRED TO BE FULFILLED?'** it screams on the top with bold letters. A crude sketch of the infamous Toad King is plastered on the middle, its gaze settled to the left and mouth in a deep frown. **'BRING THE HEAD OF THE TOAD KING TO QUEEN VADER AND YOU SHALL BE REWARDED-'.**

He counts the numbers once, then twice and thrice, just to be certain, but the the numbers aren't lying. He pinches his cheek briefly, yet the bounty still stands before him. With such a large amount of cash, he can... he can clearly see the future ahead of him. Their amusement park populated by many, a home of their own, the look of surprise as Sucre's dream finally has come true. No more flesh for dinner, instead, a steaming and seasoned steak. No more obligatory business. No more ink, nor nightmares. 

The magical number is written in bold and red:

**'16.000.000.000 CREDITS'**

**Author's Note:**

> welp... thanks a lot for spending your time reading this.
> 
> ...
> 
> Still trying to get a hang of the notes, yet, if you have time to spare, please:  
> write in the comments a piece of constructive critisism or some feedback. The guy on the other side of the screen would be tremendously grateful for such.
> 
> *smiley face*


End file.
